The Harness of God Has Held Me Hopeless
I satiate the smoke and mirrors
pulling me forward,
leading me to the stand.
The trees swallow me whole
with their bowing branches and leaves
as I’m pervaded and sickened by their piney smell
and tarry stick,
hoisted into the air
tied by my wrists
between two pillars of trunks.
I hang like a bedraggled uvula between the tonsils of God.
The reverberation of the voice sways me
in the breath of the the wind of the lungs
pulling me up
clutching me out.
I’m soaked in the swallow
of the rain collecting in the mouth,
spoken tongues seep out of the holes
of pore pocked skin
words spilling out of me
unabashedly
willingly.
My words compete with the swollen tongue
holding me in place
screaming asinine ideas of
freedom, love, peace
salvation
Ideas unknown to the speaker
the listener
the sower
and the reaper.
The white shrouded angels begin to step forward
my call beckons them.
They are struck by the hand of the iron grip,
pulled back into the false salvation
as voices whisper to them
“shield thyself”
fragile minds falling for evil ideas.
Hands like axes cut down the
delicate branches tucked away
between sinewy legs.
Sticky fingers cover the sweet o’s
of their mouths
as a symphony of soft moans
gently escapes their lips.
Call of the Mountain
The mountains swallow everything whole
Including the vitriolic decay of the dead things
Discarded on the wet pavement.
“Do you think they suffer?” I asked once
“Or do they go quick?”
I was imagining the slow movement
Of soft fur taking final breaths.
What does it feel like to have your organs
Smashed inside you and simultaneously in your line of sight?
“I don’t know.” you replied.
But I wanted to know that disgusting feeling.
Maybe it would make me more human
To know suffering.
Pressed Between the Pages of This Is Just To Say
Red roses turned maroon from weeks
in the vase
sit pressed in between pages of
poetry beloved.
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
Words of lovers past
but engraved in history
remembered through
printed pressed ink
attached to flimsy paper.
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
I wish I wouldn’t have forgotten
and gotten to it sooner.
The pressing imbues them with
a kind of lasting magic
they were delicious
preserving love
and so cold.
Hiraeth
An unknown face
In a dismantled
Disgruntled
Disinterested
Crowd.
She feels familiar
Comfortable
Like the faded lavender sweater
Sitting unfolded on the bedroom floor.
An aura of an overgrown ivy covered
Home
With the smell of baked goods wafting through
Cracked windows white with steam.
She is the familiarity of old cliches
She feels like coming home.
